You told him to pace himself, but Gojo Satoru? He’s never been great at listening.

Two-and-a-half drinks. That’s all it takes to bring the world’s strongest sorcerer to the edge of slurring his words and draping himself over your shoulders like you’re his personal chauffeur.

And here you are, guiding him out of the bar, his arm lazily slung around you, his steps just clumsy enough to keep you on alert.

“I’m not drunk,” he announces proudly, squeezing your shoulder like its proof of something, “I could totally fight someone right now.”

You huff, pulling him closer to keep him steady. “I think the sidewalk will win that one, you can’t even walk straight, Satoru.”

“M’not drunk,” he protests, lips brushing your ear, “But if I was… I’d still wanna get you home and do terrible things to you.”

His bright blue eyes, no longer hidden behind his glasses, shine up at you, soft and half-lidded, his grin all crooked mischief, "You love me~"